


Enough

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, John Watson accepts Sherlock the way he is, M/M, NOT Angsty despite the summary., Recreational Drug Use (marijuana), Sherlock has feelings...but is...well...Sherlock., Sherlock is a bossy bottom., Sherlock wears John's jumper--grudgingly, Top John Watson, Unspoken Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John comes home one winter evening wanting only a hot supper and bed. Plans change after he finds Sherlock shivering on the floor, high as a kite.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 173
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection, Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Достаточно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22020742) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)
  * Translation into Español available: [Suficiente](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546731) by [lockedin221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B)



> For the advent prompt "Hypothermia" and also "Family"

I’ve been his blogger for years now. He solves the crimes, and I write them down so that others can appreciate his brilliance. To be fair, I do help in the solving, but I must give credit where credit is due, and he deserves the lion’s share. The public seems to like my “stories,” and I find I have a flair for creating them. “Romanticism” he calls it. “Embellishment.” Whatever. It brings us clients, puts food on the table. And writing suits me.

The record of our adventures is out there for all to read, but I’ve been keeping something back, just for me. For us. In addition to chronicling his cases, I’ve started a diary of sorts of our personal life, which is sometimes just as strange as our public one, but mostly just ordinary—or at least as ordinary as life with Sherlock Holmes can be. I fancy that someday when we’re old and wrinkled, I’ll let him read it, and we’ll laugh and remember our time together here at Baker Street. I’m presuming a lot, that we will be together when we’re old. Still, I can hope. I do hope. Honestly, I can't imagine any other future.

What follows is an account of an evening last December. It started out mundane but ended up memorable, worthy of scribbling down (or pecking out, I should say, for I write on the computer) for our future entertainment.

***

The night was bitterly cold, with gusting wind that seemed to drive the snow into my cheeks like a thousand tiny ice daggers. Once inside the door, I loosened my scarf and stomped my shoes on the mat, glad to finally be home. It had been a gruelling day at the surgery, and I was looking forward to hot tea and supper. Possibly followed by a whiskey by the fire and most definitely, bed. I was exhausted.

I made my way up the seventeen steps to the flat, always conscious of the number after Sherlock pointed it out. Do other people count steps? Normal people, that is? I never had, but now I count ours each time. Not because I expect a different number, but out of habit, or because it’s what he would do. This is one of the many ways in which Sherlock has changed me.

There are three—no four, places where I might find my flatmate when I get home from work: (1) Peering into his microscope, and I might get a raised eyebrow when I arrive; (2) Sitting at his desk or in his chair with his laptop, in which case I'll get a mumbled hello or nod of the head. If he’s in an excellent mood, he may accept a kiss; (3) Lying on the sofa, motionless, wandering his Mind Palace. Although that’s not quite right, Sherlock never wanders, is never lost. He never does anything without a purpose or method. I'll get no acknowledgement if he’s in this state; and (4) Standing at the window playing his violin. This is my favourite way to find him. I’ll go to my chair and enjoy whatever sweet melody he may be playing. He’ll turn from the window and smile at me, then close his eyes and continue. Watching him play is like watching him masturbate, it’s that intimate. I never tire of these little concerts.

So, I was surprised that he was in none of these places. There was music playing over our sound system, Tchaikovsky's _Nutcracker_ _Suite,_ but I did not see him right away as my attention had been drawn to the open window and the snow swirling in. As I crossed the room to close it, I saw him lying on the rug in front of the blazing fireplace and wrapped in a blanket. His eyes were closed, and I could see that even with the blanket he was shivering.

I closed the window and turned back to him. “Sherlock,” I said. “What is going on?”

Without opening his eyes, he said, “Hello” in a distracted voice.

“Sherlock, why was the window open?”

“The smell. John wouldn’t approve.”

“ _I’m_ John, Sherlock. Open your eyes.”

He opened them, squinted, then said, “Oh, so you are. Hello, John.” They were glassy and bloodshot. Suspicious, I looked around and spied an ashtray and glass pipe on the table beside his chair.”

“Sherlock, are you…high?”

He rose to his elbow and looked at me earnestly. “Yes,” he said. “Most definitely high. Just cannabis, John. Mrs Hudson and I opened the window so that you”…he trailed off, "wouldn’t…" His eyes seemed fixed on something over my left shoulder.

I cut him off. “Mrs Hudson! You got stoned with Mrs Hudson?”

His gaze snapped back to my face. “Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. I needed some for the Beecham case. To analyse how it reacts with a certain type of brewed tea. Beecham’s wife may have mixed it with his morning cuppa, to make him more agreeable to signing the contract. Anyway, I naturally called Mrs Hudson. Easier and cheaper than buying on the street. She brought up much more than I needed for the experiment, and one thing just led to another. You know, she’s really a fascinating woman. I’ve always tuned her out, but she said the most thought-provoking things. Although I can’t seem to remember them at the moment.”

He looked up at me innocently, swaying a bit on his elbow, and with the fire behind him making a glow like a halo around his mussed curls, he looked sinfully gorgeous.

“You’re shivering.”

“Yes. Cannabis induced hypothermia, John. THC can affect the body's thermoregulation. That means—"

“I know what it means, Sherlock. I’m a doctor, remember? And it usually occurs only in high doses. Just how much did you smoke?”

He grinned. “Enough. There’s some left, though. Care to join? Oh, and just so you know. It’s making me a bit…relaxed." And then he winked at me. It reminded me of the day I first met him in the lab of St. Barts Hospital. He had winked at me then, in that self-assured almost playful way and it had seemed like an invitation. And it had been. It had been an invitation to his extraordinary life.

I stood silent. Considering. At least it wasn’t cocaine. I should have been angry, but I wasn’t. The evening that I’d looked forward to when walking up the stairs, tea, food and bed, had just been replaced by a more exciting possibility, and I found that I was no longer hungry or tired.

Our relationship had been physical for some time. But always on his terms. He didn’t want sex often, but when he gave in to the needs of his “transport,” it was with an intensity that exceeded that of any lover I’ve ever had. I didn’t have other partners, and I don’t know if he would have been jealous if did, but I was faithful. I would wait patiently for him, a wank in the shower tiding me over until he was willing. And now I saw the desire in his eyes and in the particular way his lips were parted. I can read this man. The drug had loosened the viselike grip that his brain kept on his libido.

I picked up the pipe and sat down beside him.

He opened the thin blanket and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with the first three buttons undone, and I could see goose pimples on his milky chest. I took the bag and set it aside.

“You are freezing. Until you get warmed up, put on my jumper. I pulled the blue and green cable-knit jumper over my head and handed it to him. He stared down at it as if I had just given him a dead cat.

“I have my limits, John.”

“You posh git. Put the bloody thing on or I’m going to bed,” I lied.

Shrugging the blanket from his shoulders, he stared blankly at the jumper.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Let me help you. Arms up!” I took the jumper back, and when he obediently raised his arms, I guided each one into the sleeves, then pulled the neck opening over his head and popped it into place. The static electricity made his hair frizz, and the sleeves came only halfway down his forearms. He looked ridiculous, but at least he would be warm.

“Better,” I said, pulling the blanket back around his shoulders. Then I settled back down beside him and picked up the pipe. It was made of glass and had a beautiful swirled pattern of orange and red. “This is pretty,” I remarked.

“Yes, I’ve had it for years. It was a gift from a friend. The way he said “friend” gave me pause, like friend might not have been quite the right word. And the way he quickly added “before _we_ met” added to my suspicion. Sherlock so rarely shared his past with me, but I decided to let it go.

It had been quite a while since I’d smoked, but I remembered how. I opened the bag, pulled out a pinch of the crumbled buds and pushed them into the bowl of the pipe, not too much and not too little. Then I flicked the lighter and with my thumb over the carb, lit the contents. After a second, I lifted my thumb, inhaled and the smoke burned down my throat. I closed my eyes hard and focused on trying not to cough. I failed miserably and fell into a fit, all the smoke propelled out of my protesting lungs and wasted.

Sherlock giggled. “Amateur.”

I gave him a sour look and tried again, taking a much smaller draw. This time I held it in for several seconds before letting it escape. He watched me with a lopsided grin. “John, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” 

“Well, I never thought you’d put on my jumper, so I guess we’re both surprised.” I took another hit. I was already starting to feel the effects. Time was moving slower, and the objects in the room appeared to shift. Being high can be frightening. When I’m drunk, only my body is impacted, words slurred, and reaction time diminished, but when I’m high, the effects seem primarily external, with space and time distorting around me. From past experience, I knew that if I had too much, I’d move past the gentle euphoria and into paranoia.

“This is strong, Sherlock.”

“I know. Mrs Hudson only gets the best ‘herbal soothers’.”

I burst into giggles at the thought of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson smoking together. He laughed as well.

Knowing my limits, I took a final hit and set the pipe in the ashtray. “That’s enough for me.”

“Amateur,” Sherlock repeated.

With the window closed, the room had warmed considerably, and Sherlock let the blanket fall from his shoulders. He was no longer shivering. We were sitting side by side, cross-legged on the floor, looking into the fire. As we sat, he reached slowly for my hand, which was resting on my leg and covered it with his own. I looked down at his huge hand with its long white fingers. My hand looked almost like a child’s in comparison. Sherlock can read people’s hands with astounding precision, can tell their profession, their habits and sometimes their crimes by the location of a callous. His hands are easy to read, even for me, the long supple fingers which dance so expertly over the strings of his violin, the many scars from chemical burns scattered over the backs and wrists. His hands are expressive and erotic and as I studied the one that rested over mine, I imagined it wrapped around my cock.

I looked over at him. He was looking at me, his eyes heavy-lidded.

“Would you like me to kiss you, Sherlock?” I know it’s odd after so much time, but I always ask. And sometimes the answer is no. And I’ve learned that no means no. On those nights, he might be willing to be close, hold hands and maybe even share a bed, but not more.

He nodded, and I leaned over to kiss him. He tasted like smoke but his lips were soft, and he parted mine with his tongue. He’s a good kisser, a sensual kisser, not rough but not passive either. He kisses like he’s deducing your mouth, if that even makes sense. Exploring it, learning it, understanding it. And there’s something very sexy about being kissed in this way. I often wonder if the texture of my tongue and the taste of my lips are stored in a nook of his Mind Palace and if he visits it often. 

He pulled back and smiled at me. “Let’s lie down.” And so, we lay back on the rug in front of the fire side-by-side, holding hands and looking up at the twinkling Christmas lights that had been hung around the mirror. I focused on the music, which was low but seemed to fill my whole consciousness. And I felt I could hear each note and each instrument separately. I had listened to this piece a thousand times, but it seemed different and new.

“Mycroft cleaned my shoe,” Sherlock said, out of the blue.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’d forgotten all about it, but somehow I just remembered,” he said. “We were in the park and mummy had given us money for ice cream. I dropped mine. It was mint chocolate chip, and I can see it so clearly, the scoop of green melting on the hot pavement. It had landed on my shoe and rolled off. I was crying. Mummy said it was silly to cry over ice cream and that we could buy another. But Mycroft understood. He sat me on a bench and gave me his ice cream, but I couldn’t eat it because I was still crying. He knelt in front of me and wiped the ice cream from my shoe with a napkin. You see, I wasn’t crying because of the ice cream, I was crying because it had soiled my shoe. Mycroft knew. Mummy didn’t.”

“Did you eat his ice cream, then?”

“Yes. It was strawberry.”

“So Mycroft wasn’t a rubbish big brother all the time?”

“No.”

I pictured Mycroft wiping ice cream from a crying Sherlock’s shoe and smiled to myself, both because of the image and because Sherlock was actually talking about his past.

“You know, I feel sorry for him sometimes,” I said. “I know what it’s like to be a big brother, wanting to protect your sibling and feeling angry and helpless when they won’t let you.”

“Harry?”

“Yes. So many times I tried to get her into rehab, but she refused. I couldn’t watch her destroy her life with alcohol any longer, so I let her go. I don’t think about her now.” This was a lie. I think about Harry all the time. She’s the only blood relative I’ve got and she’s slowly killing herself. She had been such a sweet little girl, my best friend and an ally against our abusive, alcoholic father. We had each other’s backs. It had broken my heart when she followed in his footsteps, and I missed her. But I didn’t want to talk about it right then.

“You love her?”

“Of course, I do. Yes. She’s my sister. Just like you love Mycroft.”

He snorted derisively. “Love. A chemical defect.”

This hurt. I can’t deny it. What we have, Sherlock and I, is love. I believe this. But he’ll never say it, never admit that the great Sherlock Holmes has given in to sentiment.

He let out a long sigh, and we were silent for a while. Though it might have just been seconds because my sense of time had been warped by the weed.

“I’d like to have sex now,” Sherlock said, with his usual bluntness.

I giggled. I don’t know why I thought it was so fucking hilarious, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

“John! What’s so funny?” he demanded.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and got a hold of myself. “Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing. If you want a shag, you shall have it.” I rolled to my side and kissed him. His face was warm from the fire, and his hand went to the back of my head and held me there as the kisses grew more passionate. I was hungry for him. It had been a long time, and I could feel my body responding, a tingling heaviness spreading through my groin. I kissed the tip of his nose, his cheeks, even his eyebrows as my hand travelled down his torso and came to rest on the front of his trousers where I could feel the outline of his erection beneath the expensive fabric.

“Oh, you _are_ needy aren’t you?” He only groaned in response as I rubbed my palm over him. He wasn’t shivering anymore, and I wanted to get his clothes off. I wanted to see him. And I knew he wanted to be seen. He likes to be admired and praised and I’m happy to accommodate him.

“Are you warm enough now? May I undress you?”

“I’m fine. And yes, please get this.. _thing_ off me.” He sat up, and I helped him pull the jumper over his head. Then I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my hands over his smooth chest. I was trying to go slowly. To make this last as long as I could. For both our sakes. But what I really wanted to do was rip off his clothes and pin him to the rug, taking what I wanted. I didn’t do that, though. I didn’t want him to think that’s all I wanted from him, even if it’s all _he_ wanted from _me_.

I always want him to know how I feel about him. That it’s not just fucking, but making love. I don’t know what happened to him to make him the way he is, so emotionally stunted, so frightened of his feelings. He won’t talk about it. Talking about feelings makes him uncomfortable. So I don’t talk, I _show_. I show him with my actions. With tenderness. Whether it’s making his favourite breakfast or caressing his body, I try.

When he was naked and lying on the rug, one arm behind his head, after I had kissed or licked or bitten nearly every part of him as he made the most indecently delicious sounds, I knelt beside him, still dressed, and swept my eyes over his body. He was beautiful. Long and lean and pale, although in the firelight he looked golden. “You are bloody gorgeous, Sherlock.” He looked pleased. And then, inexplicably, I found myself fascinated by the moles on his long neck and I stared at them for a long time.

“John?”

I came back to reality. Or as close to reality as was possible for my pot-addled brain. I pulled off my vest, and he sat up and began to unfasten my jeans.

When that mouth, that _mouth_ , closed over my cock, I shouted. Or maybe I didn’t. It might have been all in my head, but I _wanted_ to shout. I looked down and saw him looking up at me as he took it down as far as it would go, and I thought that I was going to come right then. That it would be over before I could give him what he wanted. But I held on. The man knows how to give head. I’ve found that in general, men give better head than women, but Sherlock is in a class by himself. I’m sure he’s studied technique. Of course, he has. That would be a very Sherlock thing to do.

He deep throated me again and again, my fingers buried in his curls, until I really couldn’t take it any longer. “Sherlock, you’ve got to stop, I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”

He sat back, breathless, saliva glistening on his chin, and watched me push off my jeans and underwear.

“Fuck me, John.”

I pulled him to me and kissed him hard on the lips.

“Please, John.”

“I’ll have to get a condom and lube.” We didn’t need to use a condom. We’d both been tested and were clean, but Sherlock always insisted. He’d let me come in his mouth but not his arse. The little boy who cried over ice cream on his shoe had grown into a man who hated semen trickling down his legs.

“Just lube tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

When I returned, I guided him onto his stomach and lay on top of him, peppering his shoulders with open-mouthed kisses. I took my time preparing him, enjoying every minute of it, watching him writhe and moan like a porn star as my fingers and tongue penetrated him. I loved seeing him this way. So unguarded. So undone.

Finally, I straddled his thighs and massaged his buttocks.

“Do it, John,” he whined.

Sliding into his body was like sliding into hot velvet. The drug had heightened my senses, and I was aware of only two things. The part of me that was in him and the music. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the sensations. The music and my dick. The music and my dick. I was fucking to the beat of _Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy._

“John.” His voice pulled me out of the bubble in which I was floating.

“John. Let me turn over, I want to see you.”

He turned over, and I pulled his legs over my shoulders before driving into him as deeply as I could.

“Oh, just like that, John. Just like that,” he panted. He stroked himself with one hand as the fingers of the other dug almost painfully into my hip as he urged me on. His hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead, and his cheeks were flushed pink. I wondered if anyone else had ever seen him this way. He hadn't been a virgin, but I liked to think that only I brought out this wanton, animal side. He was mine. All mine. Tomorrow we’d go back to our customary roles, Sherlock as the alpha-male and me as conductor of his light, but right then he was at my mercy and wanted to be, and I was savouring it.

I’m going to come,” he rasped. 

I felt his arse tighten around me as semen pulsed from him and striped his chest. He moaned, and I watched his beautiful face, all angles and planes, contort and then soften. Finally, he opened his eyes and they fixed on me. “Oh, John,” he breathed. That was all it took. Hearing him say my name in that way sent me over the edge, and I spilt, bare, inside him. I heard a sound, a low growling whine, and it took me a second to realise that it was me.

***

The fire had died to a few glowing red-orange embers, and I pulled the blanket over us for he had started shivering again. I pressed my body against him as we lay there, both for warmth and to have as much contact as I could get before he stopped wanting it. I stroked his hair. I placed chaste kisses on his shoulder and neck. I was starving, but there was no way I was going to get up to eat. Not yet.

“Let’s invite her for Christmas, John,” he said suddenly.

“Who?”

“Harry. I think you should see her. I want you to see her.”

“You’re high, Sherlock.”

“You deserve to have a family.”

“You’re my family.” He was silent at this. I sensed we were getting too close to talking about feelings for his comfort.

“Let’s invite her, he repeated. You both deserve another chance.”

***

We did invite Harry for Christmas. And Mycroft too. They actually got on quite well together. She made him laugh, believe it or not. It was good to see her again and we are working on mending our relationship. It’s not easy, but I think we’ll get there.

Sherlock and I continue to get high together occasionally, and Mrs Hudson sometimes joins us. The fact that she's our drug dealer still makes me chuckle. Getting high relaxes Sherlock, and that usually means he’ll let me touch him. It doesn’t always end in sex but that’s OK. I’m happy with a good cuddle and some snogging.

Sherlock loves me. Although he’s never said it and maybe never will, he tells me in his own way. I know, and he knows I know, and I can live with that. It's enough. 


End file.
